Several Ways to Die Trying
by giveyourimmortalitytome
Summary: Why did Michael even volunteer to do this? He was a Ravenclaw, for Merlin’s sake. His strengths lay in sucking up to Professors and solving seemingly impossible riddles – not latenight excursions that would probably end with his poor ass getting Crucio'd.
1. Still Recruiting!

A/N: I am slightly proud/ashamed to admit, this is the first non-Mary-Sue HP fic I have ever written. (Granted, my last Harry Potter fic was circa 2004.) It's going to be a series of one-shots focusing on the kids who were stuck at Hogwarts all year while the trio…camped. And found Horcruxes! Of course!

Anyway, they're going to be random, and the only feasible order they'll be in is what order they pop into my head. Some'll focus on characters we know and love, like dearest Neville, and others will focus on characters we kind of know and will soon grow to love. (I just love inventing back stories too much, haha.) Enjoy!

(fill in witty "I don't own Harry Potter" disclaimer here)

(also, story title is a song by dashboard confessional)

I. Still Recruting!

"The first reported attempt to burn a witch at the stake took place in 1397, in Forkshire, England." Carrow's voice, nasally and bitter, echoed slightly amongst the lofty ceiling. The Muggle Studies classroom – _Muggle propaganda, more like_ – was awfully plain by Hogwarts standards. Carrow's desk was in the front, with a streaky chalkboard behind it, covered in a large, rather detailed drawing of a muggle hanging from a 17th century gallows. The bookshelves that lined the walls were empty, having been dumped of all of their copies of The Internet Made Simple and Why Boats Make Sense to Some months earlier. The back wall was also suspiciously bare – rumor went that Carrow had blasted off the paintings ten minutes into her tenure as Muggle Studies professor. They'd been the unmoving type that Muggles seemed so fond of – like the Manchester United poster that remained plastered up in the Gryffindor 7th year boy's dormitory. Dean had left it there at the end of last term; Seamus and Neville had let it remain next to his bed, out of a melancholy respect. They hadn't heard from Dean in months.

"The witch burnings continued throughout the next _three centuries!_" Carrow screeched. Neville was just barely following along; he'd spent the past forty minutes of class doodling 'Dumbledore's Army' on his parchment. "Those of pure magical descent were forced into hiding! Hunted down! Chased from their homes, ripped away from their families - !"

A lazy hand grasped for air towards the back of the room. Carrow shut her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and asked tightly, "What, you filthy half-breed?"

Anthony Goldstein's father was the well-known and well-respected Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, who had quit the day You-Know-Who took control of the Ministry; he'd somehow managed to Stun four Death Eaters on his way out. His mother was a doctor of some sort. His voice dripping with tedium, he asked, "So…what? Magical people could just perform a spell to save themselves…? We are, y'know, _magical_, after all…"

Shocked whispers and giggles emerged from the crowd; Carrow clenched her jaw and clutched her wand. Gaze aflame, she strode past the rows of gleefully terrified students and whacked Anthony sharply. He winced slightly, but seemed more bored with the situation than anything else.

"Any more lip from any of you, you'll get sent straight to detention with my brother. You all know what _that _means, eh?" Carrow grinned gleefully and twirled her wand menacingly at students as she passed them. "The Cruciatus curse on the lot of you! Daresay, you bloody blood traitors could use it…"

She reached her desk and resumed the lecture. Neville didn't even bother to tune back in. He chewed on his quill and surveyed the room. The class had, moments earlier, been simply giddy; high on Goldstein's smart remark – even now, there was a buzz, an _energy_ that hadn't been there before. Anthony's rebellion had been small, granted – but now it would be that much easier for the 7th years to get through another day in this bastardized version of Hogwarts.

It's like Harry, Neville thought with a start as he scribbled in his exclamation point. Fifth year, back before anyone had believed You-Know-Who was back – Harry had stood up to Umbridge when she had tried to get them to believe that theory was all one needed to get through life. Harry had known better – Harry had spoken up.

Lately, Neville had found himself day-dreaming about the days of Dumbledore's Army – locked in the Room of Requirement with the people he could at least kind of sort of call friends, hurling spells at one another and cheering whenever you got a particularly nasty one right – they hadn't been doing much, really, in the grander scheme of saving the world and defeating You-Know-Who. But it had been a start. They'd been doing all they could manage, at the time – learning how to defend themselves against the growing peril engulfing them. They'd been teetering over the edge of a movement, they had – and hadn't even realized it.

_Dumbledore's Army! _Neville stared at his mindless scribble for a moment, giving the tiny _lumos! _in his brain time to develop properly. Holding back a smirk, he added two more words to the scrap of parchment: _still recruiting!_

"…Muggles resorted to awful measures in torturing the wizards. They would mindlessly hunt them down; snap their wands in half if they got the chance. Imagine that, class – the _indignity! _The _humiliation!" _

Neville's hand shot up into the air before he could smother the thought. He didn't even wait for Carrow to call on him; simply blurted it out: "So, Professor, I was just wondering… All this talk of muggles – how much Muggle blood do you reckon you and the other Professor Carrow have got in you?"

Carrow gasped and narrowed her eyes. Lips curled in a snarl, her wand arm shot up, pointing directly at Neville. He grinned, fully aware of what was coming.

_"CRUCIO!"_

And that was the last thing Neville recalled about that particular Muggle Studies class.


	2. Better Open the Door

A/N: Hey all, that was the most hits/reviews I've ever gotten over the course of a single weekend, I'm glad you liked the story so much! Up next is our dearest Michael Corner, who I'll admit kind of seems like a prat in the books but is really awesome in this story, I swear. This is also based off a brief mention from DH, and I'm sure you'll be able to figure out which one. All usual disclaimers apply, including characters and title (song by Motion City Soundtrack). Enjoyy! Feedback is always appreciated!

II. Better Open the Door

There were certain points in his life when Michael Corner wished that he had been born Squib, instead of his twin.

Granted, they occurred rarely. It was an unspoken agreement between them that he was, obviously, the lucky one. He was able to jaunt off to Hogwarts each September; spend his school year transfiguring tea cups and laughing merrily with his magical friends. Caroline, however, remained home with Mom and Dad, adding letters together (Michael would never understand how aljiba was necessary or possible) and making excuses every time her friends showed interest in coming over.

Michael pitied Caroline, a little, although he tried not to show it. Squibs were forced into this awful sort of half-life – never fully muggle, never fully magical, stuck waiting at some awkward park bench in between. Caroline was an expert in Quidditch and feetball, Floo powder and tilivesion; two worlds, neither of which could ever truly embrace her.

But math and light switches seemed like an awfully good trade-off to Michael at the moment. Why did he even volunteer to do this? He was a Ravenclaw, for Merlin's sake. His strengths lay in sucking up to Professors and solving seemingly impossible riddles – not late-night excursions that would probably end with his poor ass getting Crucio'd. He should have executed his common sense, for once in his life, and left the bravery to the Gryffindors. It was the natural order of things! They were lions! He was a raven! What were ravens good for, anyway?

(The only reason he'd agreed to do this in the first place was because the Patil twins had been there, standing beside Neville as he'd asked for someone willing that morning at breakfast. Oh, Merlin…_So _good-looking, and there was _two _of them? It was almost cruel. Michael could not be blamed for his momentary lapse in judgment.)

So, thanks to bloody Padma and Pavarti, Michael currently found himself creeping down past the Potions classroom, even further down a corridor that made him downright uncomfortable. Dim torch light flickered along the walls; there was a constant shuffling noise as rats scattered along the terrifyingly moist floor.

(Why was he doing this, again? Oh, right. Padma, Pavarti. They'd better make this worth his bloody while…)

As he tiptoed along, Michael began to grow a bit wistful. Oh, if only he knew how to Apparate. Oh, if only Apparation was possible on school grounds.

As he made his way, he kept track of the doors on his right side; according to Neville, it was the fifth door past Slughorn's class. Oh, hell. How could Neville feasibly know that? If he was so sure which dungeons it was, anyway, why didn't _he _just do it? Neville certainly had the guts necessary, which Michael seemed to be lacking.

The notion that Neville Longbottom quite possibly could be more courageous than him motivated Michael to carry on. He could do this. Raven pride, and all that. If either Carrow jumped out, Michael would simply…lull them to sleep with a detailed summary of eighteenth century goblin rebellions.

Well, then. It was good to have that all planned out.

After roughly three more kilometers of grimy dungeon (or so it seemed), Michael reached what he hoped was the proper door. He gripped the door knob for a moment, gritting his teeth and doing his best to dredge up the nerve to venture inside. As he contemplated his next move, a large drop of liquid – water, slime, Michael didn't dwell too long on the possibilities – plopped from the ceiling, directly on to his head. Oh, gross. If that wasn't a blatant sign from the heavens…honestly.

Michael wished once more to be home with his twin sister, watching a muggle match on the muggle telly their parents had bought specifically for her. (They'd had to get it specially installed, seeing as how a majority of the family was still struggling with the concept of electricity. The man who'd come to set it up had eyed the owls nervously and remarked that he must be going nutters, because he could have sworn he'd seen that portrait move out of the corner of his eye.)

And while he watched Muggles kick a ball around, Caroline could come to Hogwarts. Let _her_ deal with the Carrows and the beatings and the constant threat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named swooping in and killing them all. Squibs didn't have to worry – okay, Michael faltered, that was an outright lie. You-Know-Who wasn't equal opportunity concerning a variety of things, but mass murdering was most certainly one of them. But Caroline would have done this ages ago, anyway; she'd already be back upstairs, sipping tea and chatting pleasantly with house-elves.

…Caroline had always been a natural Gryffindor. Michael never told her that, though. It wouldn't have helped.

Closing his eyes, he turned the known and – oh, right. It was locked. That should have been glaringly obvious from the get-go. Michael whipped out his wand and tapped the lock, muttering _Alohomora. _Just like that, it clicked. Michael was in, You'd think the Carrows would have booby-trapped the place or something.

Probably the thought no one was stupid enough to come down here, Michael thought bitterly to himself as he pushed the door open. I'm the only one bonkers enough to attempt this.

After a second of hesitation, Michael stepped inside, and was nearly knocked over by the stench. It was said that Filch rarely ventured into the dungeons; that was fairly easy to validate after one noseful of the piss and the grime and possibly vomit this place reeked of.

"Hello?" a small voice called softly. "Professor Carrow? I am terribly, terribly sorry…If you'd just let me try again, I'm sure I could do better this time…"

Michael shut the door behind him, squinting in an effort to adjust to the rank darkness that hung over the room like a musty, disgusting blanket. He held his wand up and whispered _lumos_, illuminating a small girl crouched in the corner. Her wrists were encased in shackles that must have been magically shrunken to fit. Her eyes were wide and blinking rapidly to adjust to the light. Michael was momentarily reminded of the small rabbit Caroline had received as a birthday present the year before they left for Hogwarts. It'd run away after a few weeks; they'd later found its remains scattered outside a gnome hole.

"I'm not Professor Carrow, I promise…" he called back. "Just a friend, here to…help you." Taking small, careful steps, he made his way over to the terrified first year and squatted next to her. "I'm Michael Corner, a Ravenclaw sixth year. What's your name? Are you alright?"

"I'm – I'm Abby Windsor. I'm in Ravenclaw, too, first year," she replied that same, small voice. "And I'm not hurt. I'm – I'm fine."

Michael was struck by how tiny and out of place she seemed in this looming, stinking dungeon; he softly inquired as to how she ended up in here.

"In Professor Carrow's class, we had to – had to hex students who had detention. My p-person was this really nice b-boy who'd shown me how to get to Transfiguration class the first day when I'd been terribly lost. I t-tried, b-but I – I just – I couldn't –" A small tear slid down the girl's pale cheek. "I b-begged Professor to just give me more time, another chance, so I c-could do it –"

"It's not a weakness, you know," Michael informed her. "That you couldn't hex some random person in your second term here. It's – it's not a bad thing. Don't listen to the Carrows; you should be proud of yourself."

"B-but the rest of my year did it!" Abby protested tearfully.

"And now they have to live with themselves, knowing they cursed good people for no apparent reason. Just because they were told to, really. I'm sure a lot of them regret it."

"M-maybe," she said quietly, looking down at her shackled wrists. Remembering that he did, in fact, have a purpose in being down here, Michael set about unlocking them. "You know…" Abby muttered softly as he freed her left arm, "It's not like I imagined it would be."

"What isn't?"

"Hogwarts. Everyone said it would amazing, and fun, and I would learn a lot and make new friends and get hit with Peeves' water balloons – but – it's not – it's not like that. I don't like it here. It's…scary."

Michael poked his wand into the lock on her right shackle and sighed. "I know what you mean. Hogwarts is different this year. The Carrows – this isn't usually how it is. Everything will be better next year, though," he offered hopefully as he struggled with the spellbound lock, "once Harry Potter comes back and we run them out of the place. We're going to fight, don't worry, we're going to get them out of here. We just have to wait for the right time."

"Good. Because sometimes I even wish I was born Squib. If I was a Squib, I wouldn't have to come here and listen to them be mean to muggles and c-curse nice boys –"

"My sister's a squib," Michael admitted softly as he finally unlocked her right arm. It was the first time he'd ever told anyone outright; ever spoken the word aloud. "My twin. Let me assure you, she – she'd do anything, to be here, right now. _Anything._ She has to go to a muggle school, and be with muggles all day, and yet – she knows about us, about Quidditch, about Hogwarts, about – everything. She knows, and she can't be a part of it."

"I guess that's kind of awful," Abby admitted as Michael helped her to her feet. Wiping away tears, she nodded, "I'm glad to be here, really. I just – it's not like I wanted."

"This Hogwarts isn't the real one – it'll all be over by next September, I promise. Detention will once again be scrubbing floors and polishing trophies, like it used to be. You'll never have to hex anything ever again…if you don't want to, that is. I've found a few smartly placed Bat-Bogey hexes here and there do wonders to keep annoying gits in line. But that just might be me."

She giggled; grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the door. She reached for the doorknob, eager to get back to ground level, but he halted momentarily, hushing her.

"Did you hear that? It sounded like footsteps!"

"No, I didn't hear anything," she said cheerfully. "But tell me more about Hogwarts without them, please?"

Feasts with the house elves. Random, unofficial Quidditch matches that usually ended in minor injury. Charmed snowballs and candies that lifted you aloft. Staircases that chose which direction to take you and paintings that shouted advice and greetings as you walked past. A room full of kids bellowing _Patronus_ and laughing when they only produced a wisp of silver smoke. Michael grinned, not even sure where to begin. Gripping his hand tightly, Abby opened the door.


End file.
